What Do You Think They Call a Daiquiri on Scarif?
by mmmmmm00
Summary: Fine, I GUESS I'll settle for being dragged along on tying to change history with Grumpy Not!Yet!Sith Grampa. But let it be known that I do this under protest, and only with a wine koozie in hand. (Come along on a pub crawl of the galaxy far, far away./Not planning on any shipping, though.)
1. A Very Undignified Situation

_Fine, I GUESS I'll settle for being dragged along on tying to change history with Grumpy Not!Yet!Sith Grampa. But let it be known that I protest the lack of age-appropriate attractive males aside from Tarkin. Which I'd bet money isn't happening, ergo, disappoint._

 _Okay that's really overstating it: I'll let him try to change history while I attempt galactic tourism. I like three things: books, cats, and naps. I am not the kind of person who believes in this idealistic saving the galaxy crap, I'm not great at subtlety, and I do not do "adventure," at least not without a camper, a decent fifth of whiskey in a travel koozie, and sun screen. So much sun screen._

 _Self-insert (but I'm a fun asshole)._

 **FAIR FUCKING WARNING:** I am writing this because I am fucking bored and this is how I keep my free time occupied while stymied on other stuff, writing original fiction, and (trying to get away with not) studying for more classes.

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it." ~ Agent Kay, MIB

* * *

Maybe it would have helped if I were sober.

I am not.

So, we're moving the fuck on because if wishes were fishes I'd be up to my fucking ears in sushi.

Which just adds one more to the top of my head, because I love sushi and now I wish I had some. _Mmm_.

"Who?" I ask, watching this Christopher Lee-lookalike with a skepticism that doesn't even attempt to mask itself and isn't going to, ever. _Isn't he dead? Wait. Yes. Shit, now I'm sad._

"This is my estate," he says firmly. "You have no business here."

I sigh through my nose and raise my hands in surrender. "Hey, no argument here. I'm not looking for trouble. I'll leave as soon as you point me to a fucking exit." It's not my habit to stick around in strange places arguing with less-than-friendly grown men, and so far, this policy has worked in my favor through three decades and three continents. He's got nearly a foot on me, he looks fit despite being white-haired, and I'm acutely aware that we stand in arboraceous isolation, at night, and I without anything to defend myself with (where are my keys? I know I had them with me). I would not assume I could take him in a fight out of hand. I'd try—but, hey, _do or do not_ and all that shit.

 _I'll bite a chunk out of him, at least_.

He stares at me for several seconds, that forbidding gaze leveled straight at me. _At least he's not staring_ down _his nose_.

"Why are you here?"

"I guess I just wandered off the beaten path. I didn't mean to end up here. Wherever the…" I glance around. " _Fuck_ here is. I don't fucking…know where that is." I'm rambling, that barely slurred growl that tends to associate itself with laser-precision brutal honesty and words I probably shouldn't even remember at this point, but I read a lot and the words mean just as much to me as _cat_. "Shit, where the fuck am I? I mean—aside from your estate. I couldn't have walked far. If I blacked out I'd at least remember not remembering something."

These are strange trees. I've seen a lot of fucking trees; a lot of different leaves. These are nothing like anything I've ever seen in life or in pictures.

 _Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser_.

But I've also had the experience of far too many new things in my life to be put off by a few more, and I'm not from where I'm living right now, so just because I don't recognize them it doesn't mean shit.

That being said, I can't shake the odd sense that there's something that _really ought to be occurring to me_ , which is just fucking annoying. Kind of like staring at a question on a test, only I read the fucking paragraph _above_ it and the one _below_ it. And I can remember _them_ , so it's really pissing me off.

"The exit," I request, lifting my eyes and my chin back to tall, elderly, and intimidating. Key to most situations is keeping yourself calm and demonstrating that you're not some blithering easy target idiot. Most will steer clear of someone like that—'course if they don't, that's when you know you're fucked.

He strides forward. I do not flinch back; I clench my jaw, nervously tense, and at once think of three different ways to either bite or claw his face off, destroy his testicles, or otherwise get the fuck out of a headlock if I have to. _Keep your distance, know where his hands are_. Under the damn cape, for starters, but… _watch the cape_.

He looks at me cannily and I begin to wonder if it really was that obvious what I was thinking, but he keeps more than an arm's length of distance between us.

"Come with me. I will bring you out of here."

Can't argue with that.

Unless he leads me to his creepy cabin hideout where he's really just super genteel Jason-slash-Hannibal Lecter (lol Galen Erso and HH Holmes the Death Star _no stop focus_ ). Eh, at this point, we'll cross that bridge if we come to it, because I don't have much of a choice. _Head up, walk on, keep an eye on your surroundings. Eat or drink nothing that he doesn't eat or drink_. I will not be the stupid-white-chick-in-a-horror-movie-making-stupid-white-chick-decisions, even if walking off with strange men in the darkness probably qualifies me there. _Oh god my Achilles tendons aren't protected in these shoes; oh god don't think about that; oh god that's totally irrational right now just fucking chill_. But it _is_ a phobia. (I have a lot of those, I discover new ones regularly. Comes with the anxiety I'm completely unmedicated for, which is probably why I like alcohol so much.)

Probably best not to think too much about that right now.

I let him walk ahead of me, keeping a fair distance between us. He lets that happen, doesn't even glance behind himself to see that I'm still there.

The walk is long, and I realize that that's more than a little strange. Is he just taking it on faith that I'm following, and how the hell could I be _this_ far from town? I'd wandered in the general direction of Sheetz at midnight (I wanted one of those delicious lavender white hot chocolate things, if they still had it), not gone on a nature hike, so what gives?

But fucking seriously, what gives?

I'd never be drunk enough to wander out of a city at night, or even a tiny little town like the one I lived in (cheap rent), mostly because I'm kind of like a fly and am attracted to lights which mean _bars_ and _more alcohol_ ; in any case, when I do get blackout drunk I go to sleep, not raise hell. I get it from my dad—I can fall asleep clutching a wine glass upright on my stomach. There's pictures of it somewhere. That's the kind of talent I have, the utterly unimpeachably socially unacceptable kind.

Suddenly, somewhere else, distantly, there's a shriek-growl and I freeze, my head snapping around in shock. Christopher Lee-in-a-cape pauses and turns.

The trees rustle. Rustle more.

Hyperawareness mixes badly with alcohol, and I'm suddenly nauseous, and my first thought is _gee, at least it numbs the pain but_ —

I stagger back when something bursts out of the bushes.

It's all silent (I'm not a screamer, he's not that startled) except for the animal's snarl and then a hiss like dousing hot metal in cold water, and blue light.

Blue.

Okay, I'm literally thirty, and I don't remember not knowing what that is.

Lightsaber.

 _Blue_ lightsaber. My thoughts roll and pitch like a ship in a storm, which is super not fun because now I'm even more fucking nauseous.

 _That doesn't make sense, Count Dooku's lightsaber is red, because he's a Sith_.

And then suddenly my semi-inebriated brain shifts and quivers into place.

Well shit.

Christopher Lee, Count Dooku, Darth Tyranus, Sith, Separatists— _prequels_.

What? What insane fucking bullshit have I hallucinated? What the fuck was in that whiskey? I thought that was the whole goddamn point of not buying bathtub gin, so I didn't go blind or see shit that isn't there. And I wasn't drinking absinthe, they don't even put wormwood in that stuff anymore, so… _How far am I going to get demanding my money back_ …

The animal dies shrieking, rolling over with a last, rattling gasp. I can smell the ugly tang of burned flesh and hair, and just before he de-ignites his lightsaber I can see his face reflected in the blue glow; he turns to me with surprise faintly illuminated in the still lines of his face. What the fuck was that? What the fuck is that? What the fuck like in general?

"Who are you?"

"Um, leaving," I say, an incredulous little laugh welling up in my stomach before I press it down, sliding back a step.

"Stay where you are," he commands firmly.

"Uh… _no_." And yet I can't make myself move. It's not because of—well, I think I _could_ move, but I'm frozen stiff to the spot out of sheer fear. "On second thought, _fuck_ no."

"Who is Darth Tyranus," he asks, cautious—but that doesn't make a wealth of sense, why should he be cautious? And…uh, wait hold up, is he reading my mind? I sure as fuck didn't say that out loud. Jedi and Sith can do that, can't they? _Oh fuck the hell no_. Like…literally another one of my fears, dude (I have a lot of irrational phobias, okay; I also hate cockroaches and lettuce and uneven numbers except for 17 and…you know what, I probably should be in therapy—it's probably something to do with managing the world around me or something, when it was never in my hands for most of my life. Never start to read about psychology, it will fuck you up).

"Um. Count Dooku?"

" _I_ am Count Dooku, and I am no Sith."

"Uh. Wellll…" My voice goes slightly shrill and trailing off. _About that_ …

Images flit through my head, too rapid for anything but impression and nonverbal communication, but between the drunken sureness that I've finally experienced a break with reality and this is the punishment I get for marathoning slash in all its glorious forms while drinking and why did I discover Tarkrennic (Ice King + Drama Queen wait no Empress gotta be better than Tarkin = _ffffgimme_ ), let's be honest Tarkin x anybody including the fucking bicycle I'm not picky ( _shhhh_ I have a domination kink) when I should probably have been doing more useful shit, is the basic narrative of the Clone Wars tumbling haphazardly down around our ears. And everything afterwards. This man bearing Dooku's face blinks, and even in the moonlight I can see the surprise, which he is too phlegmatic to express more obviously.

The first real question I come to is _why the fuck does Count Dooku have a blue lightsaber?_

The second question is far more material: _Count Dooku isn't real and neither are lightsabers, so...what the actual fuck?_

He doesn't bother to answer either very salient question, so I'm left without answers. In fact, he just kind of stares at me.

 _So...this is happening_. I'm shitfaced and I've clearly not had near enough, yet.

Yeah…not sticking around for this one.

Just as soon as I get it together enough to _move_.

In the meantime, the nausea reaches a head. I'm not really a vomit-prone drunk, although I have embarrassed myself at noon on Sundays before while everybody else is off being pious and shit, and strange things are afoot. _We're not even anywhere near a Circle K, this isn't fair_.

At least we're outside and in the relative privacy of nighttime.

* * *

Sheetz is a gas station chain in some northeastern states of the US. It is in fact pretty fucking awesome, and those lavender white hot chocolate things are legal crack. They're even better if you add coconut rum.

Update: I went to get one this morning and they're not on the menu anymore. *sobbing* Fine I guess I'll just make my own and add rum to it in the pan so the rum doesn't cool the hot chocolate. This is a good plan.


	2. Not Safe For Polite Company

Chapter 2 of the Fucked Up Idiot Adventures.

* * *

Eventually, I'll make sense of how I got here, but to be honest it was kind of a blur. There was a lot of ugly crying and alcohol. I'm not proud of it, it's not something I'd ever admit to unless somebody held a fire under my feet, but whatever.

"Do you intend on spending every minute of every hour intoxicated?" Dooku asks, distinct reproach in his voice as we descend the ramp from his solar sailer onto the pier on Coruscant, a sprawling ecumenopolis I very concertedly do not look at or else I'll get vertigo.

I hate heights, too. Fun fact. But holy shit am I glad to be off the flying sparkly coffin. Claustrophobia, an aversion to all things submarine, time spent in something I can't just escape by _leaving_ _it_ (which even if I went for a walk I'd freak out since you know _lightyears of open space under my feet_ )—and, oh yeah, being cooped up in a tiny little space with Count fucking Dooku for a little while.

If I'd known I was taking this little trip I'd have downloaded a few seasons off Netflix and HBO first.

"Yeah, as much as I can help it. At this point I have a vested interest in avoiding the collective hangover. Look, Count Dracula—when you need a coping mechanism for how fucked up your life has become, I won't judge you. Pinkie swear." I take another sip of my white wine slushy with my pinkie raised, and smile back at him, comfortably buzzed. "I mean, you know, aside from everything we've already discussed? That's all a bit beyond the pale for me."

At least the dress is fabulous and my eyeliner is on fleek again. It's not anywhere near Padmé Amidala Naberrie, patron saint of couture level (let's get her on a votive, shall we?), but it is dark blue, silvery, and sparkly, and has wide dramatic sleeves and a wide neck and trails at my heels on sparkling perfect floors even at five thousand feet amidst a stiff breeze (part of me is worried this thing is going to catch like a sail and _bloop_ me right off the platform) and something that smells suspiciously like industrial exhaust. Seriously, no one collects dust wearing things like this here, it's awesome. And apparently they also don't have carbon emissions? Smog? I don't know, I haven't done a close reading of environmental science in Star Wars. I have read enough to know that the really good alcohol has labels in what they call "High Galactic," which is to say English, which to my mind seems just painfully neo-Colonial.

Look, it fits in better than jeans and a Guns and Roses t-shirt, especially where we're going, and he had it in a closet somewhere, okay? He's rich as shit and of course he has random dresses hanging out in wardrobes. I don't know what you're talking about. The fact I can finally live out my dreams of dressing off the walls of Hot Topic ( _but_ _classy as fuck_ ) should make no never mind to anyone else...

"Do you find my company that repellent?" I'm about 99 percent sure that was sarcasm right there. Hard to tell, he's got such a good poker face.

But I'm lit just enough to take him at his word.

I flap my hand, surprised. "God no, you're like the coolest part of this whole mess. What I mean is the complete shift of reality and everything that literally shouldn't be possible."

"Rejecting reality by ignoring it because you don't like it is no way to cope."

"There are a lot of people who pull it off very well. Wait. No, they reject reality and substitute their own. Different but related problem. There's an extra step in there somewhere." I sip my drink and wonder whether, in the time I've been gone, WWIII has started, and if I even still had a home world. Maybe this was the best thing that could have happened to me. I mean, Twitter wouldn't be the dumbest way a war ever started, really—but—

Dooku is giving me that look again, the look that says he's having trouble ignoring my weird comments both inside and out. Apparently everything that goes through my head is truly unique, at least for him. This is very much less a reflection of my own specialness than the fact that I so happen to be the only representative of my planet for him to go off of. _Eesh. That's unfortunate_.

It's really quite awful for him I imagine, as I'm kind of a piece of shit and very weird even back home, as well as increasingly a caricature of a vodka aunt. He might even think Earth is full of people just like me. _Eesh, I hope not. Some of us are normal._

"Look, Count, sir. I like you. I'm going along with your plan, quietly. You've been cool. All I ask is that I be allowed my coping mechanism in peace."

He shoots me an annoyed glance. "As long as you never call me Rick again."

"As I am the Morty to your Rick, that is a _compliment_. And second of all it isn't that I don't like it. I've loved Star Wars as long as I can remember. But none of this should actually exist. It fucks with my head."

He sighed, some of the annoyance fading as something approaching sympathy replaces it. He usually leaves off trying to get me to accept what I see around me after a while—I _accept_ it superficially, I just have a hard time dealing with it on any emotional level. Hence the determination to blur any responsibility for any serious thought with alcohol. It's all very simple, really.

"I have told you before that I do not appreciate the use of nicknames. Including Count Dracula."

I can hear the cool steel underlying those words, and I raise my hands—well, one hand, and with the other raise a half full hurricane glass—and shrug. I like the man, he has a curious forbearance with my shenanigans and can be unintentionally hilarious in a wooden sort of way, but pushing him any farther does cross a line. I have learned to respect that line, or he will cut my legs off.

Figuratively, so far.

"Roger-roger."

"And you will behave yourself while we are on Coruscant." That wasn't a question.

"Have I not behaved myself thus far?"

The look he shoots me reminds me very strongly of Qui-Gon Jinn's look of disgust when Jar Jar Binks said _"I spek." At least we know where he learned that judgey face from._

"Fine, fine," I say. "I'll be a perfect little angel."

"And you still refuse to see the Council yourself?"

"You will have to drag me there kicking and screaming. Or, you know, Imperius me."

Imperius, my favorite nickname for the Jedi Mind Trick, regardless of whether it's a Light Side technique. Does intent matter where irresistible compulsion is concerned? Me, I tend to think not—because who then determines its correct use and how will it be prevented from abuse? It's kind of like protests back home. Either protests are allowed or they are not; splitting hairs about good disruption and bad disruption almost always falls on the lines of what a person thinks are worthy reasons to protest in the first place.

His dark eyes narrow slightly. "I have no intention of forcing you to act against your will."

For a crotchety, uptight old honey badger more than twice my age, I'm really warming up to the guy.

"Hey, if you tell me where to find a museum I'll even stay in one place. Art or history. Or art history. Whichever. I love museums. I mean, modern art—that shit's hard for me because I don't _actually_ know art well enough to make appreciation of modern art possible, and god knows I'm probably going to have a worse time of it here because at the very least I do have a little knowledge of art on my own planet." Not very much—really, barely scratching the surface—but I'm not _completely_ ignorant.

 _Also, stop rambling_.

"There is an art museum open to the public not far from here which displays works from the Mid-Rim pre-Republican era," he says, agreeing immediately to what few guarantees he can wring out of me. "And I can trust you to do nothing to the exhibits?"

I look at him quickly, offended. Wow, no, _that_ crossed a line. "Cut my hand off with that lightsaber if I do!" I exclaim indignantly. "Touching exhibits in a museum when you haven't been given permission. What kind of animal raised in a barn does that? Probably the same kind that folds book pages…"

This apparently satisfies him, because he takes me to a flying taxi and pays the…um, whatever the cabbie is to take me to someplace he names. I'm not great with knowing what people are other than Wookie, Twi'lek, Hutt, or—um, yeah. There ends the list. Togruta! Right, how did I forget that one.

"Does this museum have a café?" I ask, at the last second.

"Not one that sells alcoholic beverages."

"Okay well, guess I've got to make this one last…" Ice still melts in this universe.

"Behave, my dear."

"I always do. Have fun talking to a brick wall."

He shoots me a last, borderline irritated scoff, and turns away.

* * *

I can never tell; what does it mean when people favorite or watch a work but don't review? Either way I mean, thank you for liking it enough at all to favorite or watch it. :)

Chapter 3 is where shit actually starts happening that's worth a damn. So. There's that to look forward to.


	3. Self Control Would Be A Plus

So I said this was when shit started happening, right?

* * *

*break*

Part of me isn't the least bit shocked to (re?)discover that the Emperor was a ginger in his youth, or that my luck is really this shitty. I'm here, aren't I? The problem is nothing I do actually manages to kill me and end the cycle of bullshit.

Poor dead horse.

Fucking gingers, man. They don't have souls, so they have to try and take over the galaxy?

Maybe the reason that the First Order loves red hair so much—I'm serious, there's a fuckload of First Order motherfuckers with red hair, even aside from Hux (Rodinon, anyone? Canady?)—is because they're such fucking fanboys that they've selectively bred people for the hair color.

It would explain a lot.

Also. Why, art. _Why_.

Because the color of the Emperor's hair is _really not the issue right now_ , but as ever my mind tends to wander when I've been drinking, so, y'know.

Which I have.

Been drinking, I mean. Or did you know that already? Sorry, I'm really not making any sense—I'll stop.

Talking about it, not drinking. _You thought_.

Evidently Art is kind to only one being in this universe: Thrawn, and since I'm not Chiss, or male, or a strategic genius of any kind except maybe as far as MacGuyvering wine bottles open is concerned (I imagine Imperial boots are ideal), I'm so totally boned.

Of course, I _would_ show up to a museum that houses art from Mid-Rim systems—of which there are a great many—on the opening day of an exhibit featuring pre-colonial Gungan sculpture from Naboo (not a Gungan in sight, though, so…that's creepy and terrible), and _of course_ , Senator Palpatine would be invited to attend its opening—the ceremony had been completed hours ago, but the doors had been opened to museumgoers, of which I am one. And I mean, I do have a genetically conferred ability to locate alcohol like some kind of walking dowsing rod.

I've promised Saruman I'll stay in one place.

And I'm scared, again—

 _And_ —

It's so pretty.

I can't leave.

Well, I'm just one person, and Palpatine doesn't care about me. He literally doesn't know I exist so surely I'm safe? I have no intention of going near, let alone breaching that screen of aides and smiling suck-ups all around him, who if I tried would keep me from throwing shade across the path he walked.

 _So the plan is—stay the course. Don't be a pansy-ass. Enjoy the museum._

 _Got it_.

My wine slushie is really low and that's worrying, but…

Caged off in the VIP section, I see wine on a table and a droid whose job it is to give it out, just a little bit at a time, so everyone can feel classy and lubed up while never really getting drunk (that would be poor manners).

 _God damn do I love diplomacy_.

And yeah, I'm gun shy about actual conversation just off the hip, and I don't know how this is going to work, but I'm wearing a nice dress and in need of another drink. Do I dare?

Can I— _how_ will I—

Fuck it, I never did do well at rejecting temptation.

Now, folks, in the absence of a clipboard, easily the simplest affectation of purpose and authority, assumed authority being the best deterrence for direct curiosity there is out there, there is one other easy method to pulling off a line of complete bullshit: act like you're supposed to be there.

Count Dooku had been so kind as to provide me a dress that looked like I was supposed to be in polite society (I'm ninety-nine percent sure it was all so I didn't make him look bad, but I'm ok with that), so there went half the problem right there. Aww yiss.

Okay. Straight back, calm face. _Down the rest of your slushie first, and_...

Eyes on the prize, and—

I stride forward, right up to the bar.

"Hello," I say politely. "Can I have the red, please?"

The droid doesn't even question it, and it's not without a degree of triumphant glee that he hands me a glass.

Now to walk off and enjoy the museu—

"Excuse me, miss."

I turn around, mouth on the glass and already sipping the wine because _fuck you I've already touched it_. A security guard of uncertain species—okay, I will admit to thinking that he vaguely resembles a small Xenomorph and my first, deep-rooted instinct is to run, despite the cinematic rent-a-cop uniform—walks up and stares at me steadily.

"I saw you walk in here. Are you a member of the Cancellor's staff or—"

"I'm sorry, was this area blocked off?" _Forgiveness, never permission_.

He frowned. "Did you not see the signs?"

"Well I actually have a problem reading Aurebesh, so…" That _isn't_ bullshit. I'm learning, but it's still herky-jerky and very much a conscious effort, and it frustrates me because it's so difficultly slow. "Anyway, thank you for telling me that this is a private party area. I'm so sorry for trespassing, and oh dear—I even. Oh dear. I'll just be goi…"

"Miss, you're going to need to come with me."

My heart lurches, nervously.

This isn't exactly like pinching a cookie the size of my face off a table stocked for movie extras. There is an actual level of lethality involved in getting caught, here, depending on how that cookie crumbles…

"I don't see why that's necessary," I reply, worry leaching into my tone despite its light, bright superficiality. "I mean—"

"We take security issues very seriously in the museum, particularly when we have officials visiting. I'm going to need to see some identification."

"Well I…that's the thing, I haven't exactly got any identification on me…"

Four black, beady eyes open wider, and he reached for my arm. "Please come with me, miss. Let's not make a scene and disturb all the other—"

In retrospect I will think it's probably the implication, plus the tone that digs underneath my skin like a hook.

"Okay, _first_ of all, don't speak to me like I'm a child," I say flatly, lifting a finger for visual punctuation as I lean back on my heels again. "Second of all, please don't touch me. I'll walk."

The guard pauses nervously, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of people who have yet to take note of the as-yet-quiet altercation, then turns back to me. I can sense he doesn't want to cause a noticeable upset in the perfect experience of the ranking officials. People like that, even the best of them, exist in a manicured world where the people they claim to represent are an abstraction, _a tool_ …

 _No, don't be stupid. That's_ _based on a teleology, and you fucking hate teleologies because they're true because they're true, and you hate tautologies almost as much. No law of man or history says that anything_ has _to become something else, unless you're going to stand on a lot of assumptions. That's a dangerous premise._

 _That doesn't actually change the fact…_

 _For fuck's sake, you're talking about_ Palpatine _. Get it together_.

I blink, returning to the present. Puttering about in my own head is something I've actively been trying to avoid, but this encounter has made me feel somewhat sharper towards everything. _I'm not drunk enough. I need to drink more_.

"You aren't supposed to be here, miss."

 _Watch yourself. He's not Dooku, and this isn't Serenno or the solar sailer_.

"I understand that. I'm not arguing with you." _No, but you're giving him attitude and if this were America you'd probably have been tased by now_. She didn't like cops much, honestly. Enough of them were assholes who got off on power trips that the whole lot were on the Do Not Like list. "Alright, let's go." _Don't go getting yourself into trouble. Dooku will come and get you out of the office but first you have to get to the office alive_...

"First put down the alcohol, miss."

I stare at him for a second, narrowly, and then without another word unhinge my throat and dump the whole glass down my throat like it's a beer bong. I set the glass down firmly on the counter.

"Done." I smile with a shade of meanness in my face. _What are you going to do about it?_

The guard is nonplussed, existentially, but begins to direct me towards the exit. I start to step towards it—

I don't have the Force, but humans have a sixth sense anyway, and I _feel_ something cold and ugly slide up my spine. _Oh, fuck me I don't want to turn around_ …

"Chancellor," the guard says, quickly and in evident alarmed surprise.

"Is there a problem here?"

 _Why is he over here? How—what—none of this makes sense—_

 _HOW DID HE GET AWAY FROM HIS MINDERS._ WHY _DID HE GET AWAY FROM HIS MINDERS_.

I feel like an idiot in a horror movie as I turn around.

My smile vanishes as alarm bells shriek through my head, deafening me to the point where all conscious thought vanishes in white noise roughly equivalent to _abort abort abort mayday mayday TAKE EVASIVE ACTION_ but nothing comes out of my mouth, for once.

He's not an especially tall man, nor is he making the least attempt to appear threatening. On the contrary; his smile is all grace and is almost kindly, and I might have been fooled by it had I not made the mistake of looking him directly in the eye. He's got blue eyes, but his smile doesn't reach them.

 _They're not Sith yellow. Well of course they're not Sith yellow, not yet_ …

I don't miss the way they widen just by a fraction, and for an instant just before it's sealed away I can see something startled but instantaneously riveted slither behind his irises like some kind of dark leviathan in the depths of an ocean. Have my thoughts betrayed me?

I can't breathe. I fail to do anything but stand there completely unable to comprehend how it took me less than half a second to completely fuck everything up. _I'm never drinking again_. The guard stirs. _You know, this is how you got in trouble with Dooku, too_.

"Chancellor, I'm so sorry for the trouble, but…"

Suddenly I regret having been such a fucking bitch to the poor guard. He was just trying to do his job, and if I'd let him…

"Office," I bleat, stupidly. Both are now staring, but Palpatine with a somewhat distant, politely interested gaze. "You. Um. Sir. Mr. Security guard. Take me to the office, right now. Take me to jail. Something." And almost as an afterthought, "Please." _Get me out of here I need to escape I need to_ —he hasn't let me look away for an instant; he's held my stare, unblinking. I can't blink, somehow, like he's one of those things in Dr. Who…

"There's certainly no need for that," the Chancellor says, benignly, as if he is an indulgent creature who actually cares more for people than the pedantry of protocol. "Or is this museum not open to the public?"

* * *

*break*

This fic is pretty much my shitty trashbag for "I don't know what I'm doing let's toss an asshole into a blender and see what happens." When the fuck did "I'm emotionally and psychologically compromised and can't deal with this right now so I'm going to get very drunk so I don't have to deal with it for as long as possible" assert itself. Ok but for real though; this story is actually coalescing into something resembling a plot in my head. This is why we can't have nice things. It was supposed to be just fun.

Tautologies: Something is true because it's true.

Teleology: A a reason or explanation for something in function of its end, purpose, or goal. Basically, it's giving ultimate purpose to a state of things (shit explanation but whatever). Christian ideas on temporal progress and millenarianism is a good example of a religious teleology; the Marxist idea that capitalism will (and should) develop into socialism is a good example of a secular teleology.


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